


Vermillion

by LPM



Series: Blood Justice [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Background Het, Blood, Bloodletting, Boys Kissing, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Derek, Detective Derek Hale, Detective Stiles, Detectives, F/M, Het and Slash, Killing, Love/Hate, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Male Slash, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Murder, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Fiction, Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Original Universe, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Vampires, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPM/pseuds/LPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they say about the line between love and hate must really be true! Hot off explosive arguments and unkind words, the partners in fighting crime seem unable to keep their hands off each other! While battling with being hot under the collar, new developments in the Amicus case rock everyone to the core. More fighting, more surprises, and more passion all erupt in the investigation that could mean the end of 20 years' peace from terror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vermillion

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to get out one last chapter before I throw myself into the maw of terror and nightmares called Law School Finals. I am endlessly heartened and encouraged by all your words of encouragement and your enjoying the story, you all must know that you're what keeps this train chugging! 
> 
> Anyway, enough of me being gross and sappy, I really am glad people enjoy this story! I hope its going well for you guys, I am certainly having fun writing it. In this chapter, we see a little bit of murder, we meet a new person, and we find out some terrible news. I hope you all enjoy the ride and thanks so so much, from the bottom of my soul! Please don't forget to visit me at thelpm.tumblr.com

  
_The world in the aftermath of Witch's Walk was shaken; wide eyed and terrified of its own shadow. The decade of bloodshed in North America had stirred smaller-scale massacres in other countries, upended the control and order the Shadow Council had tried so hard to maintain since the beginning of the Great Peace. Humans at large were made aware of vampires, werewolves, witches, and all the other things that go 'bump' in the night. Things they had peacefully believed resided only in the realm of fantasy. Furious at the state of things, the World Grand Master, the terrifying and ancient Adaku Adanna Adaora, made a proclamation that shook the supernatural society. For the unspeakable crimes committed by the Amicus family and their associates, the usual vampire punishment (Hyakunen Fuuin, developed by a past Grand Master from Japan, vampires are sealed away for 100 year periods depending on severity of the crime) would not suffice. Adaora herself delivered the decree to Agnes Cavendish, who was newly appointed Grand Master of North America at the time. It imposed upon the Amicus clan and those who had committed the most heinous of atrocities alongside them, the oldest and most feared of vampire punishments. The **Ardens Crucis**._

\---------------

When he died for the first time, he had felt fear. The bitter tang of the foreigner Hakan's blood had lay thick on his tongue but it was the fear that choked him. Next to him, his angelic younger brother curled peacefully, as if in sleep, his long flaxen hair floating about him like a halo. It was only the smear of blood, drying dark on his chin, that disrupted the illusion.

"Ssssh" his father had said, smoothing a hand over his forehead and urging him to lie down, "it is well my son." Arsenic Amicus' eyes were kind, his expression tender, "this will hurt more than anything you have ever experienced, but soon pain will be but a memory for us. We must suffer first to achieve greatness."

A flash of silver, candlelight gleaming bright on a long, sharp edge; the sound of metal rending flesh and his own choked off scream, then it was done. He lay struggling, gasping against the clutches of death that were rapidly pulling him under. His mind was blank, filled with panic, the fear was suffocating. Vaguely he heard his elder brother give a smothered grunt as the blade pierced his skin and he felt fleeting amusement that even in this, his brother had to outdo them all. Then the pain overwhelmed everything else and all the world was the pulsing of his blood to the frantic staccato of his heartbeat. Gradually, that too slowed. In his final human moments, Antonin Amicus saw no light, he felt no relief, all the world was fear and pain.

Then he had died.

"Hey buddy, I hear you like stealin' other men's girls"

Antonin startles, lifting his head from where it had been pillowed in his arms. Blearily he blinks at the three blobs surrounding him, momentarily unable to process his surroundings. He'd spent the better part of the evening sinking deeper and deeper into a bottle of Patron laced ever so slightly with vervain to amplify the punch. It had been a long time since he drank like this, and he'd forgotten how the poison in the drink sent him wheeling back through his own timeline, reliving his worse memories.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you pal!" one of the blobs says, and a jolt of pain lances through Antonin's skull at his voice. Irritation simmers dully beneath his skin, the ghost of the rage that has always quickened at the merest provocation.

"Gentlemen" he growls, dragging a hand through his tumble of dark curls, "I am sure I do not know what you're going on about."

The blobs have begun to sharpen, taking distinct shapes. The one on his left is a slight man with a jagged scar running down his right cheek. The one in the center, whose voice had roused Antonin from his memories, is a big man with a grizzly black beard engulfing most of his face. The one on the right looks to be the cuckolded party, his sallow face is twisted into a vengeful grimace, his body wound tight with anger.

"What we're going on about, you Euro-trash bastard, is that you laid your hands all over Tom's lady and I don't know how it goes in your country, but here in America that's asking for a beating." Black Beard looks positively dangerous, looming over Antonin, his bulk blocking out the light of the dim bulbs swinging from the ceiling. Had Antonin been human, he certainly would have felt fear; but that particular capability had fled him the night his father had put a sword through his belly and killed him for the first time.

"Lads," Antonin drawls, posture deceptively lazy as he leans back to regard the three increasingly infuriated men "I would be a liar if I professed to be innocent of taking to bed with a woman who was...otherwise attached; but I cannot quite pinpoint which of my lovely jezebels so betrayed our friend...Tom? Was it? Yes, what was her name? You must at least allow me to confirm or deny if I've tasted this particular bit of forbidden flesh."

Tom flushes bright red but unclenches his jaw long enough to speak the name,

"Anna...her name is Anna" he grits out, and Antonin allows a smirk to curl his lips.

"Anna? Well there have been quite a few of those." he says. He stands up, tired of looking up at his would-be attackers, and regards them with indifference, "would that be Anna who smelled of the Orient, hair as black as night tangling riotously as she gasped and twisted in my arms? Or could it be Anna the ebon goddess, whose thighs gripped me so sweetly as she reached the most exquisite release? No...Tom here looks to prefer a more ordinary sort...a girl next door type perhaps? Would yours be sweet Anna from Connecticut, whose innocence made taking her all the more exciting?"

he can tell, from the way Tom stiffens, that he has struck a nerve.

"Aaah, yes, sweet Anna of Hartford, who had been seeing the same boy since junior high," he continues, all faux-speculation, "she came in alone, positively reeking of need. A thirst to be sated by a man who knows something about a woman's body."

Black Beard takes a menacing step forward but Antonin isn't done provoking them. Something about his dying dream always puts him in a mood to inflict harm, to make another creature feel some kind of misery.

"You should know, she cried when she came. Said she'd 'never felt this way with anyone else'. I pitied her. Every woman deserves to know true ecstasy, even if the man she's with is incapable of giving it to her."

The punch that Black Beard aims at him then is expected. So, too, is the one that Scarface to the left delivers to his side. He deals with them quickly, breaking both arms and legs before tossing them in a heap. The bar has cleared of its patrons, once it was made clear that the vampire who had sat quietly to himself all night long was more than capable of inflicting harm, even the barkeep had scurried away. Antonin sighs and cracks his neck before turning around to face Tom, who is grey-faced and shaking but standing determinately before him, a knife in his clenched fist.

"I do not know," Antonin says, "if this is folly or bravery." He gives the shoulder movement that betrays his French roots

"No matter, the two are often one and the same."

Then he moves quickly to stand behind Tom, whose human speed could never match his own. He places his hands lovingly around the man's neck and squeezes just slightly, enough that Tom begins to choke.  
"You're more fool than hero though aren't you Tom?"

He tightens his grip, infinitesimally, unbearably, slowly cutting off Tom's air.

His veins sing, rage prowls along his ribcage, floods his belly. He's about to burst into flame.

Dying engulfed in fear and uncertainty had made him a glutton for pain. In 200 years, it was only when he felt another's suffering that Antonin Amicus felt alive again.

Tom is choking out expletives, struggling futilely against the vice of Antonin's grip. Perhaps because he was too consumed with watching the slow leech of life from Tom's eyes that Antonin failed to notice. Didn't see the creep of the silver blade, didn't discern the calculated movements of Tom's arm from the mindless flailing the rest of him was doing. Then there came a flash of silver, fluorescent light gleaming bright on a long, sharp edge; the sound of metal rending flesh and his own choked off scream.

He manages to leave the bar, clutching the sluggishly bleeding wound that the poisoned blade had left him. Tom paid for the cut with his life, but Antonin feels no satisfaction at this. The wound is possibly fatal, too deep and too poisonous to simply be slept off. For the first time in a long time, Antonin Amicus faces the very real possibility of death.

Fear awakens in him like a roaring flame, and he's nearly delirious with pain. The smell of his own blood fills his nose and mouth, choking him. Even so, he keeps walking, legs taking him anywhere and nowhere. When he finally collapses, it is against a grimy wall in an alleyway, soaked in sweat and blood.

"Hey...are you...name? Oh...ok?" a voice filters through the red haze that clouds his mind and he's aware of the sweet pulse of human blood, fragrant and heady, from somewhere very near; but he's too weak, too tired, too _finished_ to do anything more than mutter nonsense, then slip fitfully into darkness.

* * *

 

Derek Hale was born a werewolf. He's never known anything but heightened smell, strength, speed, hearing, and so forth. When he had come into his alpha nature, he'd gotten the closest a born werewolf could get to feeling what it must be like being a human changing into a wolf; because when he became an alpha, all of those senses had ratcheted all the way up. Even so, the Hales prided themselves on the utmost in control, and Derek had been trained firmly by his mother to reign in the wildness that came with being an alpha.

Derek has dealt with a constant undercurrent of pure instinct that lives just beneath his human skin; the wolf in him flowing hot, howling through his veins. Everything from hunger, to frustration, to lust and attraction is subject to his wolf's instincts. He's felt all the extremes, the highs and lows of emotion and physical impulses that accompany them. He'd thought that nothing could phase him, that there was nothing that could unseat his deeply rooted control. He'd thought that...until he came to New York City and met Stiles Stilinski.

From the moment he'd stepped into the head office, he'd been on edge. The surge of his wolf blood had felt somehow hotter, fuller, wilder; ready to spill out from him given the slightest provocation. That hadn't sat well with him, there was no explanation for it, especially since they weren't anywhere near the full moon. Derek had prowled the building, his instincts jumping, his body restless, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know why.

While Darius McMasters had met with Cragan, and they waited for the rest of the California team to trickle in, Derek had prowled. It felt very like his wolf was trying to tell him something, take him somewhere, lead him to something. Sometimes people defined werewolf attraction as being scent-based, which is true in a way. A person's scent plays a big role in attracting a werewolf, but the scent itself isn't something as discernible as "the smell of grass" or "the smell of baked bread", it is far more visceral than that. It's something that touches a werewolf's core, interacts with their senses and their soul. That day, Derek's wolf had picked up a scent that did what very few others before it had done. It moved him.

Derek has never "played well with others" as it were. He'd been raised to lead his entire pack, and the burden of that has laid on his shoulders since he was very young. George Hale raised him to be a leader, and his way left little room for flights of fancy, such as indulging his wolf in following every little interesting scent that came his way. Of course his interest had been piqued before, he'd even acted on it on some occasions, but never had someone's scent made him give chase; even unconsciously.

Derek had wandered into the Medical Examiner's rooms, his heart beating faster, excitement spiking, only to find it empty. Inexplicable disappointment had hit him then, until he was moving again, up to the main detective department. He could feel his wolf there, just beneath the layer of his skin, fighting to get loose. It made him tense and uncomfortable, made his whole body seize up in an attempt to reassert control. He hadn't been paying enough attention then and he'd bumped into someone, knocking them to the ground. When he'd looked, he swore his heart stopped.

Derek doesn't believe in love at first sight, the notion has always been ridiculous to him, but something inside him burst into flame the moment he set eyes on Stiles Stilinski. He'd been so confused, and angry, and just a little scared that day, so he wasn't even civil in their first interaction. From then, he'd fought to rein himself in around Stiles, to tamp down the urges his instincts seemed dead set on him acting on. He's usually someone whose guardedness prevents even some family members from getting too close, so his wild, instinctual attraction, without rhyme, reason, or preface, wasn't something he wanted to explore.

He'd tried holding Stiles away at arm's length, being as short with him as possible; but, as he'd found out with the Argent debacle a few weeks ago, he couldn't keep the man away without destroying their professional relationship. Stiles didn't make it any easier either, always chattering away, endearing himself to everyone and to Derek himself (though he never let on). Then that night at the bar when Derek had held him for the first time; the bolt of desire he'd felt then had been dizzying.

Even now, as they drive in silence towards the HQ, Stiles sits in the passenger seat of the Camaro. His face is carefully blank, but Derek can still smell his skin, heated so deliciously with helpless arousal at Derek's touch. He can still feel the steady thrum of Stiles' lifeblood as it flowed through his veins, running just under the skin of his neck where Derek's fingers had pressed. He doesn't know whether he should be happy or angry that his phone had rang when it did. All things considered, they're still partners working a big case. He doesn't think any of the higher-ups would be happy to hear they were getting up to anything...untoward. And everything inside Derek wants to do something "untoward" with Stiles.

"Oh Derek, I forgot to ask," Stiles pipes up next to him and Derek raises his eyebrows, signaling him to continue, "who is it we're meeting at HQ? It sounded like you know them, but I was just wondering who our star informant is and like, where the info is coming from."

Derek feels suddenly uncomfortable. This is the part he'd dreaded, the part he kind of never wanted to have to explain.

"It...the person we're meeting right now is..." he tries, then cuts himself off in frustration. Why is he so nervous?

"we're meeting an insider who has just come forward with new info" he says gruffly, eyes carefully avoiding Stiles' face,

Stiles gives him a dubious look, but doesn't comment further, refocusing on the road and his own turbulent thoughts.

* * *

 

Asimov had passed the night hours in stillness, moving only when the first weak rays of the dawn crested the city's jagged horizon and spilled into the ruins of the living room. He'd perched on the only untouched chaise and waited as his bleeding wounds healed, thoughts spinning. When morning came, he got up and dressed, deciding to push the violence and catastrophe of the previous night to the back of his mind. There was a more pressing appointment he had, one that brought him to where he stands at the moment, gazing up at the marble spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral as people hurried by him on the crowded 5th Avenue sidewalk.

"You're early." she says, appearing to his right. He doesn't turn his head, only nods and continues to survey the Cathedral. She speaks again,

"the inside is very beautiful," this in a thoughtful murmur "a crowning jewel in the history of architecture, especially for this tasteless continent."

He smiles humorlessly and turns his head minutely, just so he can see her more fully.

"Aunt, you do a disservice to our second home." he drawls. Aurelia Amicus smirks.

Aurelia is a stately woman with the good looks that run in the Amicus bloodline. Tall and long of limb, her effortless mastery of the style in any century meant that she drew eyes wherever she went. Currently she'd slipped into straight legged slim jeans, rolled at the hem to expose her trim ankles. Her shirt is a floaty white confection in some sheer material, half-tucked into her jeans. Her long hair, deep brown and pin straight, falls elegantly, partially swept back by a to simple gold clip. Today she'd foregone her signature heels and stood at 5'10", looking up at him in simple flat sandals.

"Nephew, I think you know why I asked you here" Aurelia says tonelessly. Asimov turns his eyes back towards the looming Cathedral, he toys with the heavy ring on his left hand.

"I do not" he replies, "or rather, I do know but do not see the need to have done it."

Aurelia looks sharply at her nephew's face, dark brown eyes narrowing as she tries to detect any hint of facetiousness. But Asimov's face shows nothing. His eyes, partially hidden behind the dark lenses of black sunglasses, stay trained on the building before them.

"The need is that I requested it," she snaps, temper quickly rising at his lack of obeisance.

"That lack of relevance that bears is staggering, Aunt" Asimov says. Aurelia's hand twitches, as if she was about to lift it and give her nephew a good slap like she was burning to do. Asimov's eyes flick to the errant limb and something freezes Aurelia in place.

"That's what I thought" Asimov says darkly, then stands to his full height, all 6'2" of him looming over Aurelia like the facade of the church beyond them.

"Hear me Aunt." he spits, his low voice hard at the edges, "never call me out like this again."

Asimov draws closer to her, eyes boring into her own as his tone drops down to freezing,

"Never risk this family's mission for the foolishness of your own pride. I was not the one who snapped your precious plaything's neck, but it was good for her that it was done anyway. Perhaps she will learn now not to attack agents of the Force without provocation! It is not I you should be seeking to chastise, Aunt," he hisses, anger apparent in every tense line of his body, "it is that abomination of a mistress you keep!"  
Then she really does slap him, hard enough that some passersby look askance at them, but then quickly continue walking by. Aurelia's face is livid as she gazes coldly on her nephew while he recovers from the blow.

"You will never speak of her that way again," she spits, fury making her forget herself, "you will ne---"

Asimov has had enough, he grabs her and they disappear in a flash. Then they are deep in Central Park, Asimov's hand gripping her throat as he holds her pinned to a tree.

"Listen to me" he says quietly and calmly. His eyes are swirling pools of anger and hatred, burning into her own.

"While you waste time, while you sit and do nothing, I am working towards our end, our goal. So do not assume your slight advance in age bears any duty of respect or obedience from me. The time for that dynamic is long passed. You and I stand on platforms built of our own power, our own merits now, and mine have long since surpassed yours."

She chokes, trying to curse him, trying to spit at him, but his hand only tightens.

"Tell your bitch" he spits venomously, leaning close to his aunt's furious face, "to stay out of sight and out of the way. If I see her out, I will kill her myself. Permanently this time. Do not test me, Aunt, this family has been wearing my patience thin as of late."

With this, he releases Aurelia's throat and steps away quickly disappearing from where she lays crumpled to the ground, screaming hoarse curses at his back.

* * *

 

When they get to Force HQ, Stiles makes a beeline for the lockers. The clothes he's in aren't exactly work-appropriate and he at least wants to be dressed when he explains to Cragan why he's in before he was told to be. Derek follows him, muttering something about his holster being in his locker.

"So we're...meeting that informant now?" Stiles asks after five minutes of awkward silence. Derek, back to him as he straps himself into his gun harness, grunts an affirmative. Stiles eyes the breadth of his shoulders, perfectly highlighted by the harness, and swallows. He turns to the task of getting himself dressed and pulls up his tee shirt. The tension in the room seems strung tight enough to snap with the looming specter of their "moment" back at the apartment pushing up against their minds. Suddenly, Stiles can't take it anymore. If this feeling persisted, he knows one or both of them would end up snapping, and then Cragan would have to separate them like kids. He turns around, his shirt still unbuttoned, and begins to speak,

"Look," he says, and Derek turns around to face him, freezing a little when he takes in Stiles' state of undress. The look in his eyes makes Stiles stutter and his palms sweat. Stiles' face heats and he wets his dry lips. The movement of his tongue draws Derek's eyes and in that moment, they're transported back to the apartment. This time, the heat in Derek's gaze is unmistakable as he tracks the pink tip of Stiles' tongue across his lips.

All nervousness forgotten, Stiles looks dead into Derek's eyes and licks his lips again. Slowly.

Derek makes a cut-off noise in the back of his throat and steps close, crowding Stiles back against the wall of lockers, stopping when their thighs touch. His eyes are dark and even more intense than before. Suddenly, Stiles is acutely aware of every place their bodies touch, of the heavy breaths they both draw, of Derek's face inching closer...

"Well, well, well" a light voice cuts through the tense semi-silence, breaking the spell. Derek takes a deep breath and steps back, turning to look at the intruder. Stiles, too, turns to the door, where the voice had come from, and sees the same blonde man from the day at Molly's bakery, standing there looking smug, despite the shocking state his face is in.

"So this is what you get up to behind my back," the man positively purrs, sauntering into the locker room. "I'm hurt."

Derek has gone tense,"Who was it?" he asks through gritted teeth, and his expression leaves no room for evasion. The blonde man does a decidedly Gallic shoulder motion but his smirk has faltered

"That let me in here?" he says, full of bravado "well I just thought that you were a bit late, so I came to fetch you."

Derek gives a warning growl, eyes flashing. To Stiles' surprise, the blonde, whose sass did't seem to waver, looks down at the torn fabric of his tight-fitting jeans,

"You know who it was," he mumbles, refusing to meet Derek's eyes. Of course, Derek doesn't accept this. He growls low in his throat again and turns full away from Stiles, attention solely on the other man.

"Who" he deadpans, "did this?"

The blonde looks mutinous but answers sulkily,

"Asimov"

Stiles could swear Derek uses every swear in the book in that moment, then he strides to the blonde man

"Let's go" he snaps, then turns to Stiles "it's time for the debriefing" he says tersely.

The blonde man huffs but loops his arms around Derek's right, then he casts a look in Stiles' direction,

"won't you introduce me to your...ah...catamite?" he asks, his attitude apparently recovered as a catlike smile curls his Cupid's bow lips. Derek pauses and looks at Stiles, standing there looking tousled and flushed still.

"That's not...he's not...that." he mutters, "he's just my partner."

The blonde man 'hmmms' and then abruptly loses interest.

"Okay, let's get this over with. I want to get to bed soon." he says, and Derek stiffens, then strides out of the room without another word.

Right before they leave, the blonde man turns back and gives Stiles a sly smile,

"see you soon  _partner_ " he says silkily.

And then they're gone.

For five whole minutes, Stiles stares at the door where they had been. Then he grabs the rest of his things from his locker and turns to leave, feeling oddly drained.

Outside, Lydia is waiting for him by his desk. She descends on him as soon as he walks in, eyes wide and excited.

"Oh my god tell me you met him!" she gushes, grabbing his arms.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles asks crankily, thinking about that obnoxious smile on that blonde man and feeling somehow irritated.

"The tall, blonde, beautiful man hanging all over Derek Hale!" Lydia exclaims. Stiles scowls, annoyed at having the other man's obvious genetic lottery winnings shoved so plainly in his face.

"Yeah, I met him. So?" he grumbles, and Lydia looks at him strangely.

"I mean...don't you know who that is?" she asks, excitement all but gone.

"No, just some ridiculously good-looking a-hole hanging all over Der...Detective Hale like some kind of bimbo." Stiles says petulantly, and Lydia fixes him with her best 'Oh Honey' look, shaking her head.

"That wasn't just _any_ bimbo Stiles," she says, "that was Andrej Amicus. The youngest Amicus brother."

* * *

  
Stiles regards Andrej Amicus with a detached appraisal, much like one would look at a work of art. The vampire is certainly beautiful, even bloodied and bruised as he currently is. His long tumble of blonde hair is wild and tangled, his face bearing slowly healing cuts and bruises. Dark smudges beneath large eyes, the deep blue of a turbulent ocean, mar the otherwise perfectly pale face.

"Vervain" Andrej pronounces wryly, wincing as Lydia sets up a blood bag drip in his vein.

The entire Amicus investigation team is assembled in the room, all watching Andrej with a mixture of expressions. Stiles finds it interesting that the California members seem none too pleased to see the gorgeous vampire, that is, except for Derek, whose expression lacks the hostility the rest of his team members' have made clear on their faces. His is an expression of tightly wound black temper, brows drawn like storm clouds over eyes that have gone as dark as the waters of a troubled sea. His mood is clearly affecting the other werewolves in the vicinity, especially those who are members of his pack. His eyes flash red for a minute and the other werewolves actually do whimper. Laura rolls her eyes, unaffected by her brother's mood, and pushes forward. She looks at Andrej as one might look at an unwelcome guest at a party,

"Andrej," she says, ice in her voice "it's been a while."

Andrej's expression isn't any friendlier as he inclines his head at Laura in greeting,

"not long enough for you though" he says. Laura raises an eyebrow and her lips twist into a brittle smile,

"Never is not long enough when it comes to you" she says and Stiles is struck by the unpleasantness of the situation. The rest of the California team seem of a similar mind with Laura.

"Enough baiting and bitching" Cragan snaps, clearly tired of the contest of unpleasantries being exchanged,

"we've got work to do. Mr. Amicus," he addresses Andrej whose face has already begun knitting itself back together,

"we'll need a full statement from you later, but for now tell us what you've found out."

Andrej straightens and nods once, suddenly all business. The atmosphere in the room shifts with him and even Laura manages to drop the attitude and pay attention.

"What I am about to tell you is something I never could have imagined happening. Something that stands to destroy what we have worked for ever since my grandfather awoke his army of blood fiends on this country." Andrej begins, big eyes sweeping the room. "It is the worst fear of many, the thing only nightmares could bring about. I do not know how it was done, what deal with the devil brought it about, but I have just discovered that the man who I once called father...Arsenic Amicus...is still alive."

Shock ripples through them all, registering clear and unmistakable on every single face.

"We still have hope, I believe!" Andrej interrupts the first bubbling of panicked murmurs "what I have deduced is that Arsenic is not well, something is wrong with him. That's why my brothers are back in town. They're looking for something to help Arsenic."

Cragan takes a deep breath, looking momentarily exhausted, then he fixes Andrej with a steely eyed look,

"What are they looking for?" he asks, "because whatever it is, we'll tear down this entire city before we let him have it."

Everyone nods solemnly. If Arsenic Amicus got his hands on whatever it was he needed to become whole and powerful again, there was no telling the horror he could inflict on the world once again. Arsenic was not like his father, he was by far the more vicious of them during the Bloody Decade. Adamus killed with purpose, Arsenic killed with wanton abandon.

"It's something, or _someone_ , called 'The Hybrid'." Andrej explains, "I don't know what it is or what it has to do with how Arsenic is still alive...but I _do_ know that they're close to finding it. That it's here, or at least near here. That's all I could find out before Asimov lost patience with me and I ended up like this." He waves one elegant hand to encompass his current sate of dishevelment, though his face is back to flawless alabaster perfection.

"Well..." Laura says after a minute of brooding silence, "I think I need to get the old family Grimoire"

Cragan's eyebrows go up,

"all the way back in California?" he asks, "can't you have it overnighted?"

Derek shakes his head, "too valuable, too dangerous" he says, and Laura nods her head in agreement.  
"They can manage without me for a day or two while I do this. Now we have a real lead, I want to research it as soon as possible."

Cragan nods, "well you should go now, then. Take the Force jet, I'll have them get it ready. You leave in an hour. Do not let anybody know why you're heading back. I want this stuff about Arsenic Amicus kept under wraps, you hear me?" he addresses the room at large "I don't intend to start a panic by letting people know that one of the biggest monsters of our times isn't actually dead."

After this, Cragan dismisses them so he can make some extremely necessary phone calls.

"I don't envy him having to call Darius McMasters and tell him Arsenic Amicus is still alive" Erica says, "that's not gonna be a great conversation."

Scott snorts and shakes his head, "neither is the one where the Captain tells McMasters who the informant is" he muses. Stiles agrees with them. In his few encounters with the legendary werewolf, Stiles had learned one thing. Darius McMasters is not a man to displease.

* * *

 

Gerard Argent met Adamus Amicus when he was 5. He remembers very little of his father, Chase, from before that day, and sometimes wonders what it would have been like if he'd been a little older when Adamus reentered the Argent family's lives. It was like any other summer Sunday, dawning bright and warm, golden sunlight spilling over the lush green grounds of the Argent compound. They were an extremely wealthy family, thanks to a succession of savvy forebears and the magical gift given to them by Golnesa Argent generations ago. Gerard was raised in finery and splendor, wanting for nothing and lacking in nothing. Had he never crossed paths with Adamus Amicus, he might have ended up like his father. He'd be a well-to-do young dandy. He'd indulge in anything his heart desired; women, cars, food, all of the worldly things a man could get with money. Chase Argent was nothing if not self-indulging and Gerard, even at the tender age of 5, was unmistakably heading in the same direction.

"Is this the boy?" Adamus had drawled, in a voice still flavored by his native France. Behind him, standing nervously by the door, was Chase; wringing his hands. He'd had such soft hands, with pudgy palms and sausage-roll fingers. Gerard can remember them, pink and perpetually damp, but always kind.

"Y-yes. This is my son" Chase had said, "Gerard."

Hearing his name, young Gerard had turned to lay eyes on Adamus Amicus for the first time in his life. The man struck an imposing figure, tall and lean with fierce eyes, he had loomed over Gerard like a towering skyscraper then. Next to him, Chase Argent had looked positively cherubic, with rounded ruddy cheeks and protruding middle.

" _Dio mi perdone_ , humans!" Adamus had spit, looking thoroughly unimpressed, "we leave this family alone for a meagre 100 years and all of you turn into festering heaps of adipose and sloth!"

Chase's round face had reddened at the slight, but Adamus held up a hand to quell the protest that rose to the other man's lips,

"Do not bother with your excuses," he had said, disgust a palpable force that dripped from his tone,

"I will take this child."

Then Chase really did try and protest, and the remainder of that negotiation was conducted in another room. All Gerard knew was that, one day he slept in his massive feather-down mattress, and the next he was being held by a terrifying woman on a long journey to his new future.

Now, 61 years later, he still sometimes wonders what his life would have been like. Would he have grown old and fat like his father? Would his magic have dwindled to a spark and become so useless he could barely bring forth flame? A tiny part of him wants to see the man he would have become had he not been taken that day.

"Dad..." the gravelly tones of his own son's voice break him from his reverie and Gerard turns away from staring blankly out the window to face the other man.

Being raised by vampires had made Gerard into a hard man. Adamus Amicus was no benevolent mentor, nor was he particularly tolerant of softness or failure. Gerard had learned the hard way, been taught by the best of his kind to wield the power his ancestors had bled and burned for. When he had children, he taught them the same way.

Christopher Adam Argent had never had a chance to be soft; had never been the sticky-cheeked kid lazing away the days. As Gerard's son, and the next head of the Argent family, he was trained hard to be a powerful witch and a great leader. Their family business is also in his hands. He is a son that Gerard can be proud of.

"Son, what is it?" Gerard asks, stretching his stiff muscles.

Even at the age of 66, Gerard's body is in top shape. He had promised himself, many years ago, to never fall to the level of "adipose and sloth" that had so disgusted Adamus Amicus when they first met.

"The car is here" Chris says simply, and Gerard feels the heavy weight of his family name settle on his shoulders like a king's mantle.

Being an Argent meant much more than running a successful business. It meant much more than just being witches. The name Argent was synonymous with greatness among their kind, starting with Marcel, the eldest son of the First Witch, Golnesa Argent. Marcel, and his son Edward I, had forged order from chaos, they had brought a world in turmoil, back towards peace. It was the work of those first great Argent men that made witch hunting illegal, it was the first Argents that helped form the Shadow Coven and make life better for witches around the world. After them, the line had consisted of mostly lazy sons, those who forgot the original and eternal debt owed to the Amicus clan, without whom they wouldn't exist. Adamus Amicus never let Gerard forget who his family owed its existence to, and Gerard never let any of his family forget it either. To be an Argent is to serve, and today, Gerard Argent is going to do just that.

"Tell them I'll be right down" he says to Chris, and picks up his suit jacket from the chair he'd placed it on when he'd initially entered the room.

"It's been a long time since I last saw Arsenic," he says, a brittle smile stretching his lips "I want to look my best."

* * *

 

The morning passes semi-normally once the meeting is over, everyone has leads to follow and places to go. Since Derek hadn't come out with them from the meeting room, Stiles spends time reexamining the case, picking over the minute details for anything he could have missed. He is, however, wholly unsuccessful at banishing the niggling curiosity that has eaten at him since he first saw Andrej Amicus slide out of Derek's car. So, when lunchtime rolls around, he plops down at Scott's desk, determined to suss out the deets.

"Scott ol buddy ol pal!" he exclaims jovially. Scott, for all he usually seems adorably oblivious, knows immediately that something is up.

"Stiles..." he says cautiously, watching him through narrowed eyes. Stiles smiles and leans in,

"So...I had some questions." he says "some questions about my partner and his past...er...dalliances."

Scott groans and rolls his eyes, slumping in his seat.

"You mean" he grumbles "that you want to know about Derek and Andrej."

Stiles smiles and leans in, ready for a story. Scott looks torn for a moment,

"I really shouldn't just tell you this," he says hesitantly and Stiles hastens to reassure him,

"don't worry about violating Derek's privacy or anything, I won't tell a soul. I promise!" he holds a hand to his heart and tries to look sincere. Scott clearly doesn't believe him, but decides to tell him the story anyway.

"I've known Derek for a really long time, and I've only ever seen him completely taken with someone twice. Andrej was the first one." he begins, eyes darting around to see if anyone is listening.

"They met when Derek was 18 and training up with his family one summer. Andrej is a special vampire correspondent for the Hale family, he gives private and intense training. Anyway, they became..uh...involved, obviously. Derek's family didn't approve of it but they let him do what he wanted. Andrej is actually ah...he's Derek's first love."

For some reason, Stiles suddenly feels as if he's intruded. As if he's gone too far, but Scott is still speaking.

"I guess, back then, Derek was young and dumb and he fell really deeply. Andrej could make him do anything, had him wrapped around his little finger. Derek started slacking on his training, his family was pissed, his friends were all but gone, and Andrej...well...Andrej has always been about his own freedom."

Stiles can see it clearly then, the reason things are so weird between them all. Derek's first love had ended in catastrophe, the commitment-phobic Andrej had broken his young heart and earned the dislike and distrust of everyone in Derek's life.

"Even after Andrej broke things off, he'd still show up from time to time. Sometimes years would pass and he'd just...pop up at Derek's door and pick up where they left off. Derek isn't an idiot, he knows what Andrej wants and doesn't want, but he's still a little bit of how he was when he was 18. We all think a part of Derek will always love Andrej." Scott shrugs, "you know what they say about first loves..."

"Yeah" Stiles says faintly, "you never really forget them. Especially if they keep popping up."

Scott is looking at him sympathetically with those big brown eyes and Stiles is struck with an embarrassing thought.

"So, just how pathetically into him do I seem?" he asks, feeling his face heat up. Scott smiles crookedly,

"don't worry, you're not the Annie to his Troy" he answers, referencing one of Stiles' favorite tv shows. Stiles deflates, puts his face into his hands and sighs,

"well at least there's that," he mutters through his fingers.

Scott pats his shoulder and lets him have his corn muffin. Stiles professes that they're best friends from that day on.

 

* * *

 

  
"Stand straight. Chest out. Shoulders back. Breathe...good. Now, again."

She listens, listens and performs. Her core is alive and active, her veins are almost burning with the power of it.

"Andrew, stand straight"

Her mother's voice is sharp, clipped and curt. As always. No woman marries into the Argent family to be a weakling, at least not a woman of the main line. The last ineffective Argent woman was her grandmother Sonya, but her grandfather was too domineering to have a truly powerful wife. He always complained bitterly of his misstep in marrying such a spineless woman, never spared his wife from his criticism. And Sonya took it quietly, never saying anything in return.

She wasn't like her grandmother, though. She was forged in blood, sweat, and tears, engineered to be the perfect strategist and warrior. No less for Gerard Argent's grandchildren.

"Allison!" her mother calls her name, snapping her attention back to the lesson at hand. She refocuses, performing the complicated spell Victoria Argent had laid before her twin children. Allison's brother Andrew works diligently to master it. She has had it down since a few minutes into the lesson. Andrew had been born with little magical aptitude, a deficiency their grandfather had all but beat him out of. He'd never be as great a witch as Gerard or their father, Chris, but years of grueling training had built Andrew's magical ability to an acceptable level.

Allison, on the other hand, is immensely talented, and Gerard never lets anyone forget it. Disproportionately gifted with an enormous magical reserve, she had wielded her power as naturally as breathing from a very young age. She is the pride of the Argents, and being groomed to take her place as the 11th head of the family when her time comes.

"Victoria." her father's voice rings out from the doorway to the practice room and they all stop and turn to him.

"It's time. He's here." Chris says, and his wife nods. Cold dread fills Allison's belly; she knows what her father means.

Ever since Adamus Amicus had taken her grandfather and turned him into a magical human weapon, the Argents have been preparing. In the shadows of the Amicus operation, the Argents moved, using their powers to help along the plan. Allison had been too young during the Bloody Decade to participate, but she remembers the days that tasted of blood and chaos, she remembers the fear that haunted everyone's faces. She'd thought everything had ended with the death of Arsenic Amicus, had thought the Argent servitude to that family had come to an end. For 15 years she believed this, studied and trained freely. Then one day her father and grandfather had sat her down and told her everything.

Sometimes she still finds it hard to believe. That she had been trained to become a part of the mechanism that would bring one of the world's most demonic scourges back to power, that her whole family would take part in one of the darkest spells known to their kind in order to achieve this terrible deed, none of it seemed like reality to her. For the past 5 years she's trained and gone to school, never believing the day would come that the plans her father and grandfather had laid out to her, would come into effect.

Clearly she'd been wrong to delude herself.

"Allison, Andrew" her mother snaps, "go get cleaned up. We have an important guest."

Allison leaves, traipses to her room even though her whole body feels like it's made of lead. All her life, she's listened, and never said a word in complaint. Through backbreaking physical and magical training on top of attending the world's best schools and finishing at the top of her class, she had never complained. There was no question that she attend business school, that she intern at the best firms, that she train with the most powerful witches. She hadn't been raised to have her own desires, only to give herself wholly to the furtherance of the family and of the Amicus clan.

"What do you think it'll be like to finally meet Arsenic Amicus?" Andrew is asking eagerly, as they climb the steps to the family wing of the house. Allison doesn't know, really, but she supposes it will be very much like meeting the devil himself.

* * *

 

Stiles goes to bother Lydia when it becomes clear that Derek will be occupied for the rest of the day. He sits in a chair, talking about anything and nothing for hours, gradually making his way to the subject of Derek Hale.

"And I mean, who does the guy think he is, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs alone all day. Aren't we supposed to be partners?" he bitches, arms flailing energetically as he speaks.

"He clearly had things to take care of" Lydia murmurs absently, peering into a microscope at something or other. Stiles makes an agitated noise and gets up out of his chair, pacing

"what _things_?" he whines, "the only things he needs to take care of are this case and finishing what we started in his apar....er...well finishing our talk" he kicks himself for the slip-up, knowing there is no way that Lydia, even a distracted Lydia, had missed it.

"Spill Stiles" Lydia says, still not looking up from her microscope, "you know you want to, and besides, I'll find out anyway."

He huffs and drops back down into his seat,

"we almost kissed, I think, in his apartment earlier. It's whatever, it was nothing, or everything, I don't know! His phone rang and then we came here and we didn't talk about anything and shut up it was nothing!" he says, ears turning red. Lydia radiates her usual combination of amusement and hauteur, even without looking up from what she's doing,

"well do you want to continue?" she asks, and Stiles throws up his hands,

"duh! I mean, no, I mean, I don't know! Whatever, let's talk about something, anything, else. What about you and Jack-whatshisname. How's that going" he splutters, clumsily changing the subject. He can almost hear Lydia rolling her eyes, but she indulges him and tells him about Jackson.

"Anyway," she says a while later, "he's smart and good-looking, but he's way too full of himself and he takes a lot of time in the bathroom. Almost more than me. I can't have that, sooo I'm thinking it was just a one-off kind of thing. We might do it again, but if we don't then it's whatever."

Stiles nods (though she can't see him), marveling as yet another guy fails the Lydia Martin Standards Test; then he checks his phone,

"Ugh, it's not even close to home time!" he moans.

Lydia sits up, looking sly,

"Don't be grumpy sweets," she drawls, "you've still got me to keep you sane"

Now Stiles rolls his eyes, but before he can say anything, Lydia continues,

"and besides" she coos, sickly sweet, "there's always the possibility of more time with Derek to look forward to."

Stiles feels his face flame and rues the day he'd ever decided Lydia Martin would make a good friend.

"I told you that in confidence!" he screeches, affronted. Lydia only laughs,

"what!?" she exclaims, mock innocence written all over her beautiful face "it's not like I've gone around telling everyone that you want to touch all of Derek Hale's hair and lick his face and mmgghfgh!!!"

Stiles covers her glossy lips with a hand to silence her, looking around to make sure no one was around to hear.

"Ssssh!" he hisses furiously, "no one's supposed to know that, and probably you shouldn't even know that!"

"Whatever, everyone already knows" Lydia dismisses his protest and shrugs off his hand "the UST between you two is thick enough to cut!"

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at her,

"UST?" he repeats, puzzled. Lydia rolls her eyes at him and says, in a long-suffering way

"unresolved sexual tension Stiles, at least _try_ and keep up."

Stiles can only shake his head, he _really_ needs to reevaluate his choice in friends.  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Well? How was it? I hope nothing was too confusing or didn't run together. Sometimes its hard to keep track of all that's going on but I really am all about continuity and flow, please let me know if anything is weird/off/confusing. I promise I'll try and fix it or its something that gets explained later. Again, I love all your comments, they keep this story alive! And please do visit me on tumblr! I'm
> 
> thelpm.tumblr.com


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